Le Morvan, [A District of France,] Its Wild Sports, Vineyards and Forests; with Legends, Antiquities, Rural and Local Sketches Part 16

Having disposed of the quadrupeds of Le Morvan, I must enlarge a little upon the finny tribe of my native province, who would, I feel sure, be not a little annoyed if after having mentioned nearly every other creature capable of affording amus.e.m.e.nt to the sportsman I were to pa.s.s them over in silence. Besides, the shade of Izaak Walton would haunt me, and his disciples no doubt wish me well hooked, if I omitted to give them a chapter on angling,--but it shall be short, and I will avoid all scientific discussion. Theories sufficient have been hazarded, and books written without number from the days of old Aristotle, who arranged them in three great divisions, the Cetaceous, the Cartilaginous, and the Spinous; down to Gmelin, who divided them into six orders, the Apodal, the Jugular, the Thoracic, the Abdominal, the Branchiostagous, and the Chondropterygious.

How men, learned and scientific men, can be so barbarous as to invent such grotesque names as these is surprizing, or why Apicius should be remembered for having been the first to teach mankind how to suffocate fish in Carthaginian pickle; or Quin, for having discovered a sauce for John Dories; or Mrs. Gla.s.se, for an eel pie; or M. Soyer, celebrated for depriving barbel of their sight, in order to make them grow fatter, and be more acceptable to the epicure. Into this wilderness of discoveries, I have no intention of introducing you, gentle reader. The wisest plan is to cook and eat your fish in the ordinary mode--fry, broil, bake, boil, or grill; and call a perch, a perch, not a thoracic; a pike, a pike, &c., and pay little attention either to cooks or naturalists.

Le Morvan, intersected by numerous rivers, streams, and runs of water, in the liquid depths of which the various species of the fresh-water fishy-family are found from the powerful, swift, and travelled salmon, to the modest little gudgeon that stays quietly at home, is a country where the angler may live in a state of perpetual jubilee; the carp, the eel, and the pike attain an enormous size, particularly near the dams and flood-gates, where the depth of water is great, and in the _Gours_ or water-courses which, diverging at several points on the stream, are constructed for supplying the flour and paper-mills with water.

The punters of Richmond, Hampton Court, and Chertsey, with their magnificent tackle, gentles, ground-bait, and comfortable chair, &c., would be astonished to see the quant.i.ties of fish that are taken in one of these _Gours_ by a half-naked peasant, with a line as thick as packthread, during a sultry tempestuous evening in the month of June; from thirty to forty pounds' weight of carp and eels is by no means an unusual take,--Apodal and Abdominal, as the learned Gmelin would say.

These _Gours_ are perfect jewels in the eyes of our fishermen; on very great occasions, for instance, when the miller marries, or an infant miller makes his appearance, if the occurrence should happen during the summer season, the flood-gates of the _Gours_ are opened, when the waters being let off to within a few inches of the bottom, the quant.i.ty of fish taken with the casting-net is enormous. In the large _Gour_ of Akin, the longest, the deepest, and containing more fish than any on the Cure or the Cousin, which I mention as representing the ten or twelve second-rate rivers of Le Morvan, I have seen as much as four horse-loads of fish taken, though every fish under two pounds was thrown back. The average depth of water in these rivers is from three to four feet, except near the dams and flood-gates, where it is from twelve to thirteen. With rivers so well supplied, sport is invariably obtained; so that patience, a virtue generally considered absolutely necessary in the angler, is scarcely required here, and fis.h.i.+ng is actually a pastime of the _beau s.e.xe_.

Well do I remember the astonishment, the pleasure, the delicious joy of a young English lady we had the good fortune to have with us at Vezelay, some few years since (where, by-the-bye, she made quite a sensation), when for the first time, and seated comfortably upon the soft turf by the river side, she gracefully threw her line into the great _Gour_ of Akin; the bait had scarcely sunk, when the float was dancing about like a dervish, and finally disappeared; the lady pulled, the fish resisted; excited beyond measure, she redoubled her efforts, and tugging away with both hands, at length drew from his watery home a large carp, which flying through the air, described a splendid parabola, and landed in the adjoining field, to the great joy of the young lady, who showed her white teeth and laughed with might and main. But the poor devil of a servant to whom was confided the delicate task of impaling the bait, disentangling the line, and searching for the fish, when thus projected over the lady's head into the long gra.s.s behind her, had plenty to do I can aver, and did anything but laugh.

Near the forests and the hills the rivers are much more shallow, more clear and limpid, and flow, dance, and bubble over a gravelly bottom or golden sands. In these the voracious trout abounds; he may be seen allowing himself to be lazily rocked by the eddy, by the twirling current, or reposing under the shadow of the large rocks, which, detached from the adjacent mountains, have fallen into the river, and been arrested in their course; here he waits for the delicious May-fly, and the fisherman's basket is soon filled--so soon that a celebrated doctor in our neighbourhood, whose house is situated near one of these streams, used to send his servant every morning to take a fresh dish for his breakfast. The largest and the best trout are found near Chatelux, in the heart of the Morvan,--an old _chateau_, on the summit of a high rock, ornamented with towers and turrets, and surrounded by thick and solitary woods, in itself a lion worth seeing.

The present Count de Chatelux was aide-de-camp to Louis Phillipe, and a great friend of that sovereign. The river Cure flows at the foot of the hill on which the castle is situated, and its bed at this part is frequently divided, and forms many little islets, full of flowering shrubs and forest trees, which give the landscape a pleasing and picturesque appearance. From hence, for nearly twelve miles, roach, dace, chub, and trout are numerous, and take the fly well.

Besides the _Gours_ we have mentioned, there are three spots in the Morvan that deserve attention in connection with fis.h.i.+ng. These are Sermiselle, Pierre Pertuis, and the Chateau des Panolas. Sermiselle, at the junction of the Cure and the Cousin, at which point the road from Paris to Lyons pa.s.ses, is a charming village, full of life and gaiety.

At this spot the river begins to make a respectable figure; deep, solemn, and silent, it seems proud of its boats and ferries; but its waters have not that transparent appearance, that vivacious, laughing, and brawling character which distinguished them some miles further up.

The fish in like manner resemble the stream; there are in this part monstrous carp, majestic eels, and solemn pike; and the line should be doubly strong if the angler is desirous of ever seeing a fish, or his hooks again.

At some distance above Sermiselle, where the silence and solitude of the country still reign, a very curious mode of fis.h.i.+ng is adopted during the burning heat of the summer months. About mid-day, when the sun in all its power shoots his golden rays perpendicularly on the waters, illuminating every large hole even in the profoundest depths, the large fish leave them, and, ascending to the surface, remain under the cool shade of the trees, watching for whatever t.i.t-bit or delicacy the stream may bring with it, while others prefer a quiet saunter, or, with the dorsal fin above the water, lie so still and stationary near some lily or other aquatic plant, that they seem perfectly asleep.

The enthusiastic sportsman, who fears neither storms nor a _coup-de-soleil_, makes his appearance about this time, without, it is true, either fis.h.i.+ng-rod, lines, worms, flies, or bait of any description, but having under his left arm a double-barrel gun, in his right hand a large cabbage, and at his heels a clever poodle. The fisherman, or the huntsman, I scarcely know which to call him, now duly reconnoitres the river, fixes upon some tree, the large and lower branches of which spread over it, ascends with his gun and his cabbage, and having taken up an equestrian position upon one of the projecting arms, examines the surface of the deep stream below him. He has not been long on his perch when he perceives a stately pike paddling up the river; a leaf is instantly broken off the cabbage, and when the Branchiostagous has approached sufficiently near, is thrown into the water; frightened, the voracious fish at once disappears, but shortly after rises, and grateful to the unknown and kind friend who has sent him this admirable parasol, he goes towards it, and after pus.h.i.+ng it about for a few seconds with his nose, finally places himself comfortably under its protecting shade. The sportsman, watching the animated gyrations of his cabbage-leaf, immediately fires, when the poodle, whose sagacity is quite equal to that of his master, plunges into the water, and if the fish is either dead or severely wounded fails not to bring out with him the scaly morsel; thus so long as the heavens are bright and blue, the water is warm, the large fish choose to promenade in the sun, and the sportsman's powers of climbing hold out, the sport continues. Sometimes the poodle and the fish have a very sharp struggle, and then the fun is great indeed, unless by chance the sportsman should unfortunately miss his hold in the midst of his laughter, and drop head-foremost into the water with his cabbage and his double-barrel.

Pierre Pertuis on the Cure, is also a famous place for fis.h.i.+ng, and an extraordinary spot, and the Morvinian peasant, a highly poetically-flavoured individual, has made it the theatre of some very fantastic scenes. Imagine a yellow rock, of gigantic height, terminating in a point, with its sides full of fissures, holes, and crevices, inhabited by crows, owls, and bats, having its base in the river and its summit crowned with a rough _chevelure_ of brambles and large creeping plants. The lower part of this rock is intersected by holes, through which the water rushes, tumbles, and whirls. The peasants pretend that the river near the rock cannot be fathomed, and that this particular spot is inhabited by fairies, nymphs, syrens, and other amiable ladies of this description, who have superb voices, and sing from the interior of their grottos delicious melodies of the other world, with the charitable intention of attracting the pa.s.sing traveller or fisherman, and drowning him in the whirlpool beneath--a fate that would certainly be inevitable, if the attraction in question could bring them within its vortex, for certain it is that neither sheep-dogs or cattle which have fallen in, or been drawn within reach of its power, have ever been seen again. When the tempest rages here, the wind, rus.h.i.+ng into the holes and fissures, produces a kind of moaning aeolian noise, and this with the cries of the owls and the rooks when the _mistral_ blows and they have the rheumatism, produces, and no wonder, a superst.i.tious feeling of awe in the mind of the ignorant peasant.

On the Cousin, which flows majestically through some of the most magnificent pastures in the world, and on the summit of a large hill, stands the charming Chateau des Panolas, the towers and walls of which, covered with pointed roofs and weather-c.o.c.ks, and surrounded by domes, belvederes, and old-fas.h.i.+oned dovecots, give it at a distance the appearance of some oriental building. The weather-c.o.c.ks in particular are of the most fanciful and grotesque designs, and it is said, and I should think there can be no doubt of the fact, that in no other structure have so many been seen together: it is calculated there are no less than three hundred. In going and returning from the forest, many a time have I and my friends, in the hey-day of youthful iniquities, knocked one of them off with a ball from our guns, to the great anger of the proprietor, who threatened us with his mahogany crutch from the hall door.

In the great ponds of Marot, and in the lakes of Lomervo--immense liquid plains, deep and surrounded in their whole circ.u.mference by a forest of green rushes, water-lilies, flags, and many other aquatic plants, forming a wall of verdure--the enormous quant.i.ty of fish of every kind is almost incredible. Nor is this extraordinary, for the waters of at least a dozen streams from the mountains, which swarm with life, fall into these vast reservoirs, and they are only fished once in every five years. This is a delectable spot for fishermen; but, on the other hand, as the value of these sheets of water is well understood by their proprietors, they are sharply looked after by them and their keepers, and it is almost as difficult to find an opportunity of throwing a line during the day, as it is for a poacher to throw a casting net on a moonlight night.

Nevertheless, as the appropriation of other people's property has an exquisite charm for some temperaments,--as a stolen apple to a child's palate is much more delightful than one that is not--the demon of acquisitiveness is always leaning over a man's shoulder,--that is to say, a poacher's shoulder, or even that of a gentleman with poaching tastes and inclinations,--to breathe in his ear bad advice. As to the peasants in the neighbourhood, they are always consulting together, or inventing some method by which they may circ.u.mvent the proprietors and appropriate their fish to themselves.

One of the happiest discoveries of the kind I ever heard of,--not the most recent but the best,--is the following. Every person in the possession of a cottage, possesses also a few ducks and geese, which paddle about their humble habitations. A man who has an itching for the thing, and who desires to become a pond-skimmer, as they are called, carefully selects from his squadron of _palmipedes_, the strongest, the most intelligent duck or goose of the party; his choice made, he immediately sets to work to give him the education befitting a bird destined for so honourable and diplomatic an employment.

After very many trials, lessons, and lectures, more or less difficult and tedious, the bird is taught to swim to a distance right ahead--to turn to one side when his master sings, and return to him when he whistles. These two primary and elementary movements, which appear so very natural, demand, nevertheless, wonderful patience, and no little cleverness and tact in the professor to instil--for his pupils, be it remembered, are ducks and geese--and furnishes an example of how the hope and love of gain has its effect on mankind. These very peasants, who never would take the trouble to learn their letters--only twenty-four--who would not many of them go two miles to learn how to sign their own names, pa.s.s whole days in the gray waters of these marshes, more often than not up to their waists in mud, whistling and singing and twitching the legs of their unfortunate birds, and nearly pulling them off with a string, when they either do not comprehend, or obey as quickly as they might, the orders they receive.

Dozens of ducks and geese that would in London or Paris be considered highly curious and infinitely wiser than any of their species--even those of the Capitol--are thus trained every year in Le Morvan, without any one giving them a thought, and may be purchased, education included, for two s.h.i.+llings a piece. When these winged students are so thoroughly qualified for their duties, that they can go through their exercise without a mistake, and are considered worthy of taking the field, the peasant puts them into his bag, and setting off very early in the morning to one of the great ponds I have mentioned, conceals himself behind a thick tufty curtain of flags, from whence he can see without being seen.

Here, opening his bag, he takes out the half suffocated ducks or geese, which are glad enough to find themselves once more on their favourite element; and the intelligent birds have scarcely regained their liberty when the peasant commences his ballad, and immediately the anchor is apeak and they are off; he sings, he whistles, and they turn, like two well-manned frigates, and come back to him without a moment's delay. The act is so natural, so simple, that no one can be attracted by it; nor is it possible to suspect a goose or a duck with its head down searching for food, that paddles about in the weeds or on the sh.o.r.e, or dabbles amongst the rushes. Should the keeper appear, the peasant is sure to be found lying on his back half asleep, or singing or whistling, as if mocking the lark in the clear blue sky above him.

Nevertheless, this goose, this duck, and this man are first-rate thieves,--cracksmen of their cla.s.s; for the peasant, before he confides his poultry to the waves, makes their toilette; sliding under the left wing and over the right, across the body, like a soldier's belt, a strong and well-baited pike-hook. Thus equipped and ready for the start, the pirate birds leave on their buccaneering expedition; but they are scarcely a stone's throw from the sh.o.r.e, and well clear of the little islands of flags, when a hungry pike, observing the delicious frog towing in the rear, seizes it, and makes off to his hole, to gorge the bait at his leisure. More easily thought than done;--the goose stoutly resists, and refuses to accompany the fresh-water shark to his weedy home. A warm and obstinate engagement is the result; the peasant watches, with approving eye, the embara.s.sment of his feathered accomplice, until he thinks it time to put an end to the scrimmage, when he whistles like an easterly wind in a pa.s.sion. The goose, rather enc.u.mbered by the carnivorous gentleman below him, endeavours for some time but in vain to obey the signal; he flaps his wings, works away with his legs, and cackles without ceasing. The poacher encourages him with another whistle, and at length the bird, in spite of all his adversary's attempts to the contrary, leads the "greedy game of the deep" to the sh.o.r.e, and delivers it to his master. This is, certainly, a very curious mode of taking pike, and the live trimmer looks very puzzled when the voracious fish is hooked; but the following anecdote, taken from the sc.r.a.p-book of Mr. M'Diarmid, shows that a Scotchman once adopted the same method, though for a different reason. "Several years ago," he writes, "a farmer, living in the immediate neighbourhood of Lochmaben, Dumfriess.h.i.+re, kept a gander, who not only had a great trick of wandering himself, but also delighted in piloting forth his cackling harem, to weary themselves in circ.u.mnavigating their native lake, or in straying amidst forbidden fields on the opposite sh.o.r.e. Wis.h.i.+ng to check this flagrant habit, the farmer one day seized the gander just as he was about to spring upon the blue bosom of his favourite element, and tying a large fish-hook to his leg, to which was attached part of a dead frog, he suffered him to proceed upon his voyage of discovery. As had been antic.i.p.ated, this bait soon caught the eye of a ravenous pike, which swallowing the deadly hook, not only arrested the progress of the astonished gander, but forced him to perform half-a-dozen summersets on the surface of the water! For some time, the struggle was most amusing--the fish pulling, and the bird screaming with all its might,--the one attempting to fly, and the other to swim, from the invisible enemy--the gander one moment losing and the next regaining his centre of gravity, and casting between whiles many a rueful look at his snow-white fleet of geese and goslings, who cackled out their sympathy for their afflicted commodore. At length Victory declared in favour of the feathered angler, who, bearing away for the nearest sh.o.r.e, landed on the smooth green gra.s.s one of the finest pike ever caught in the Castle Loch."

This adventure is said to have cured the gander of his desperate propensity for wandering.

CHAPTER XXII.

Village _fetes_--The first of May--The religious festivals--The _Fete Dieu_--Appearance of the streets--The altars erected in them--Procession from the church--Country fairs--The book-stalls at them--Pictures of the Roman Catholic Church--Before the _Vendange_--Proprietors' hopes and fears--Shooting in the vineyards--The first day of the _Vendange_--Appearance of the country--Influx of visitors at this season--The consequences--Herminie--Her sad history--Le Morvan--Recommended to the English traveller--Lord Brougham and Cannes--Contrast between it and Le Morvan.

One of the happiest and most useful customs established by our ancestors, was, without doubt, the village _fete_--the periodical festival that takes place in every hamlet, and at which the inhabitants of the adjoining _communes_ a.s.semble on a specified day to foot it gaily in the dance and drink each other's health gla.s.s to gla.s.s in br.i.m.m.i.n.g b.u.mpers. These joyous _fetes_, a kind of fraternal and social invitation, which are given and accepted by the rural population when spring and verdure made their appearance, are held all over France, and rejoice every heart. In our day, though much shorn of its ancient revelry, and neglected, _la fete du village_ is still kept up, for it is, so to speak, indigenous,--a part of our social habits, and like everything which carries within it a generous sentiment, is loved and cherished by the people. As the day approaches every village is suitably decorated, the women are all on the tip toe of excitement to see and be seen, the peasant throws dull care behind him, and the artizans in the nearest town work with renewed energy in order that they may do honour to the occasion. Every one, in short, makes his way to the rendezvous, a merry laugh on his lip and joy in his heart, and, lost in the tumult and general gaiety that prevail, all forget, for some few hours, their hard work and privations.

These festivals offer to each either profit or amus.e.m.e.nt; the peasants find in them a refres.h.i.+ng and salutary rest from toil, the tradesman fails not to fill his pockets with their hard earnings, the clown shows off his summersets, the young men are touched with the tender pa.s.sion, and the young girls, with their white teeth and sparkling eyes, await with feigned indifference the proposals of their admirers. The village _fete_ forms a bright epoch in rustic life, and the gay hours pa.s.sed at them are the happiest, the most joyous, and the most enchanting of the year.

Our ancestors, who knew and more thoroughly understood these matters than we do, who loved a laugh, the dance, and the merry outpourings of the heart, endeavoured by every means in their power to multiply them, and, after having seized upon the name of every saint in paradise, they managed to appropriate, and always for the same motive, all the various occupations known in the cultivation of the fields as a good excuse for holding more of these saturnalia. The season for sowing was one, the hay-harvest another, the wheat-harvest, the period of felling the oaks in the forest were excellent opportunities for establis.h.i.+ng a new _fete_, and consequently buying a new coat, singing a carol, drinking to France, and skipping _des RiG.o.dons_. For, be it said, one really does amuse oneself in my beautiful country; yes, one amuses oneself, perhaps, much more than one works; there are more Casinos built than acres grubbed up, and is not this partly the reason why the land is so badly tilled and produces only one half of what it should. But what signifies it, after all, if this half is sufficient for us. England, they say, is more opulent and better cultivated; be it so,--she is richer, she manufactures more; but is she happier?

Independently of these _fetes_, the number of which is infinite, but which occur only, in each locality, once a year, there exist also those merry meetings, which, like the Sunday, are understood by the peasantry as a general holiday. Amongst these, the most animated and attractive, and more usually marked by happy incidents, is that of the first of May.

At the earliest dawn of day, the tones of the bagpipe may be distinguished in the distance, coming up the princ.i.p.al street of the village. He who has heard this rustic sound in the happy days of his childhood, under the shade of the elms, will always love the unmusical and melancholy wailing of the bagpipe. The strain has scarcely died away when all the village is alive, every one is up and dressed in his best--the children, with enormous nosegays in each little hand, go and present them to their delighted parents, and wish them "_un doux mois de Mai_."

Each house, perfumed like a parterre of flowers, opens its doors, and, during the live long day, it is between friends and acquaintance a series of happy smiles, and a mutual exchange of nosegays and hearty shaking of hands. Then in the evening, when the moon has risen in the west over the fir woods, the young lads and la.s.ses, with their fathers and mothers, saunter along the streets arm in arm. At short distances, on the roofs of the houses, are seen, elevated in the air, gigantic chaplets of flowers, illuminated by large torches of rosin. Within these chaplets are others of smaller size. A dance, _grand rond_, is formed by the young lovers that have carried the May to their sweethearts, who, rising before the dawn, had already gathered the mysterious declaration of love, perfumed and still covered with the tears of night. In this large circle is formed another of children, about ten years of age, and within this again, a third of quite little things; small human garlands within the greater one. And the bagpipe plays, and all the world dance, and every one is happy, and the evening breeze shaking the large chaplets above showers of lilac and hawthorn bloom fall on the dancers and rustic ballroom beneath.

To these village _fetes_ must be added, to complete the list of our popular holidays--the religious festivals, established by the Roman Catholic church, which, in the eyes of our rural population, are the most imposing and magnificent ceremonies of the year. These _fetes_ are very little known in Protestant countries; a few details, therefore, of one of them, taken at hazard, may please, or at least offer some point of interest to the reader.

In the month of June, when the heavens are all azure, when the sun smiles on us here below, and the summer flowers are all in bloom, the long-expected _fete_, the _Fete Dieu_, _la fete des Roses_, the feast of Corpus Christi, one of the most brilliant festivals of the Roman Catholic church takes place.

Several days before, all the houses appear in a new toilette, decked out with evergreens and branches of the vine and tamarisk, festoons of which are suspended from window to window. All the streets of the village are washed and swept, like a drawing-room. On the preceding evening every garden is opened, the borders are ravaged, baskets-full of roses, armfulls of jasmine, bunches of gilly-flowers and sweet-pea fall under a little army of scissars and white hands. The camellias complain, the heliotropes murmur, all the tribe of tulips are in low spirits, for each family gathers in a perfect harvest of flowers--every one remarks to the other--"To-morrow is the _fete Dieu_, the feast of roses--the favourite festival of the year." And when aurora, pale with watching, rises in the cloudless sky, when the c.o.c.k, herald of the morn, proclaims the birth of another day, when the first golden ray, traversing s.p.a.ce, lights the eastern cas.e.m.e.nt, behind which many a lovely bosom heaves, with antic.i.p.ated conquest and excitement, the bells of the village church are heard, and at this merry signal every one is up and soon busily engaged superintending the preparations for the day.

The streets, as if by enchantment, are carpeted with verdure; the pine, the oak, and the birch, from the neighbouring forest, contribute their young shoots and leaves; the p.r.i.c.kly broom its yellow flowers. The facades of the houses are hidden under their various hangings, the rich suspend from their windows their splendid carpets; the poor, sheets as white as driven snow. All ornament them, here and there, with roses, pinks, and carnations. Then, at short distances down the princ.i.p.al street, the young _demoiselles_ of the village erect what are termed _reposoirs_, a kind of chapel or altar, improvised for the occasion, which lead to an emulation and an animated rivalry perfectly terrible.

It is whose shall be the largest, best, and most elegantly decorated, and these young nymphs, usually so reserved and so easily frightened, become, for this week, as bold and free as so many dragoons. They enter the house, without being announced, open the drawers, visit the secretaries, ransack the cupboards. Pirates, with taper fingers, they put into their baskets and reticules all the valuables they can lay their hands on. Objects of art they are sure to seize, more especially if they are made of the precious metals. It is who shall adorn her _reposoir_ with gold and bronze vases, with enamelled cups, pictures, and rich crucifixes. Important meetings are held, in some secret spot, to determine of what form the altar shall be; if the dominating colour shall be blue, purple, or lilac. Then there is a consultation whether the drapery, that is to cover this temporary chapel, shall be with or without a fringe,--a discussion which becomes more entangled with difficulties than those in the Parliamentary Club of the Rue des Pyramides, as to the continued existence or demise of our poor const.i.tution. Silk, satin, and velvet ornament the interior of the elegant edifice; the most delicate perfumes burn in each of its corners, and, in order further to embellish the altar on which the Holy Eucharist is to rest for a few minutes, there is a perfect coquetting with chaplets, festoons of gauze, crystal lamps of various colours, and transparencies through which the subdued rays of the sun shed their softened light.

And, when everything is ready, when the ma.s.s has been said, when the moment has arrived for the procession to move through the streets, the bells ring a still merrier peal, the great folding-doors of the princ.i.p.al entrance of the church are thrown open, and emerging from thence one sees beneath the vaulted arch, first, the great silver cross, then the banner of the blessed Virgin, carried by a beautiful young girl, dressed in a robe of spotless white; after her come several little children with flaxen heads, their hair parted and flowing on their shoulders, carrying in their hands baskets ornamented with lace, and full of poppies and corn-flowers; behind them are the children of the choir, with their silver-chased incense burners; then two deacons, one carrying on a silver plate the bloom of the vine, the other a head of corn; then four men supporting a large s.h.i.+eld, on which are twelve loaves and a lamb, symbolical of the day; and lastly, under a canopy enriched with gold lace and fringe, the old priest, calm and grave, who carries in his hands the Holy Eucharist, followed by a long line of his faithful paris.h.i.+oners, with the mammas and young girls two and two, singing psalms and canticles. In this order they move along the crowded streets, which are strewn with fennel, green branches, and leaves.

From time to time the whole procession halts before some _reposoir_--the little girls drop three curtsies before the beautiful altar, and scatter high in the air handfuls of broken flowers, which shed a delicious fragrance around; the children of the choir wave their censers to and fro, the old priest blesses the crowd who kneel before him, and the smoke of the incense, and the perfume of the roses, ascend towards heaven as the adorations and prayers of all present ascend to G.o.d. This, the holiest and most imposing _fete_ of our rural districts, is also the one the most loved. Pity not the peasant, pity not those who are from necessity obliged to live in these retired spots. They have their _fetes_ as well as the rich, happier and much more magnificent, at which they can be present and form part without paying anything. Nature, too, source of so many marvels, whether she covers the earth with a robe of verdure, or fields of golden corn, or that she shelters it under a mantle of snow, presents to the husbandman some interesting scene. Have they not also the shade and silence of the forest, the eternal freshness of the fountains?

It is true the peasants know nothing of Beethoven's symphony in C, they are not familiar with the melodies of Rossini, Madame Grisi has never in her terrible finale "_Qual cor tradisti_" made them weep, nor has the orchestra of Monsieur Jullien made them deaf. But what are these splendid wonders of the town to them? Have they not a melodious choir of birds to arouse them each morning from their slumbers? have they not as scenes, the woods, the bubbling waters, verdant valleys, real sunrises and sunsets? Can they not, seated on the summit of some hill, round which the breeze of evening plays, gaze upon the glorious sky above them spangled with stars, those unfading flowers of Heaven? Say, reader, is not this hill a charming pit-stall, and much preferable to the narrow crimson section of the bench at the Opera? These are some of their enjoyments; then how could they with any degree of pleasure stick themselves up like logs of wood or trusses of hay before a row of lurid lamps, to admire some painted men and women mincing up and down the stage, or peer through two telescopes at forests of painted calico and moons cut out of pasteboard, or listen to hackneyed airs which have been sung and resung a hundred times--worn up, in short, like an old rope?

The peasant farmer or yeoman of France, who in the midst of the most pleasing circ.u.mstances, never forgets his own interests, has also found it desirable for the advancement of his worldly prosperity, to establish fairs, at which he can sell his hemp and beasts, his wine and his crops; purchase clothes for his family, and coulters for his ploughs.

These fairs, which are held once in each month in all the towns of Burgundy and large villages of Le Morvan, attract a great concourse of people, and as there is much variety in the costumes, head-dresses and colours, the effect is highly picturesque. The mountaineer brings with him for sale wild boar and venison, wood and wild fruits of the forest; the inhabitant of the plain, the thousand productions of the neighbouring manufactories. Second-rate jewellers arrive with their boxes full of gold crosses and buckles, holy chaplets blessed at some favourite shrine, and silver rings.

Book-stalls are also to be seen, kept by Jesuits in disguise, the shelves of which are loaded with inferior literature, with a perfect deluge of breviaries, almanacks, abridgments of the Lives of the Saints, with "Letters fallen from Heaven," in which, "Ladies and gentlemen,"

shouts the proprietor, "you will read the details, truthful and historical, of the last miracle at Rimini; also a new and marvellous account, equally authentic, of several pictures of Christ that have shed tears of blood. Buy, ladies and gentlemen, buy the history of these astonis.h.i.+ng miracles--only a penny, ladies, for which you will have into the bargain the invaluable signature of our Holy Father the Pope, and the benediction of our Lord the Bishop."

But ought one to be surprised at such announcements, at such a traffic, or that in these so-called enlightened days, not only auditors but purchasers should be found?--that there should, in fact, be a sale for these printed mystifications, when officers of the government and officers of the armed force, attest on their honour the truth of these impudent impositions upon the credulity of mankind, affirm the accuracy and _bona fide_ character of these winking, blinking, blasphemous, lachrymal representations?

Yes--a sub-prefect, a mayor, and an officer of the _gendarmerie_, have signed a doc.u.ment stating that they had seen a picture of Christ shedding tears of blood!

When archbishops order public prayers and thanksgivings for the renewal of these pasquinades, this ridiculous mockery, can one be astonished, I say, at the state of religious ignorance and blindness of our peasantry?

Such, with a few wretched prints representing Napoleon pa.s.sing the Alps seated on an eagle; Poniatowsky and his white horse attempting to cross the Oder; Cambronne, with imperial moustachios, on his knees repeating the celebrated _mot_ which he never said: "_La garde meurt et ne se rend pas_," &c.,--such, I am grieved to confess, is the miserable intellectual food, the wretched mental and moral stock of human and religious knowledge that supplies the literary and artistic wants of the greater portion of the peasants of our departments.

At these fairs all the farm servants are engaged; those who wish to try a change of masters, or hire themselves merely for the harvest, a.s.semble in the open s.p.a.ce near the church, and then offer to those who require them, their brawny arms, and their farming acquirements. The most celebrated of these fairs is that held on the First of September, to which whole hamlets send all their able-bodied men and women, who hire themselves to the great proprietors for the _vendange_--for this in Burgundy and Le Morvan is the great work, the chief event of the year; it is on the _vendange_ that depend the commerce, the tranquillity and happiness of the country.

Monsieur B.... is ruined if the sun is obscured by clouds. Monsieur D.... who has cunningly laid his hands upon all the barrels within thirty miles round, will put a pistol to his head if he cannot sell his army of hogsheads. This one relies upon his vineyard for paying his debts--another cannot marry unless he makes three hundred tierces of wine. Eight out of twelve, in short, reckon upon the produce of their vines to buy a new carriage or to be saved from prison; and the agonised mariners of the wrecked _Medusa_ never cast their eyes with more intense anxiety towards the horizon than do these proprietors of our vineyards every morning before the vintage.

If it looks like rain no sunflower is more yellow than their countenances; if the cold is unusual every face is pale, and should a frost appear imminent, those whose affairs are the most compromised, pack up their effects and make ready for a start. But on the other hand, if the sky is serene and the wind warm, husbands are actually seen embracing their wives, and promising them any toilette they may fancy.

Should the heat become Bengalic and insupportable oh! then all Burgundy is dancing and running to the vineyards,--all the Morvinians fly to the hills to enjoy the cool breezes and admire the luxuriant panorama beneath and around them.